I have this
fantasy where I greet you on your doorstep for your birthday, and much to my
surprise you hurry me inside to join you and your family and friends to
celebrate the occasion. Years have
passed since I’ve seen your face, years since I allowed things to end so poorly
between us, yet you somehow dash away all those lost days and unspoken miseries
by eagerly – gleefully! – taking my hand and leading me down the hall to where
the rest of the party awaits your return.
To be honest, I
don’t know exactly what happens next in this scenario, but there are enough
snippets of imagination in my mind to form a vivid moving reel: Your eyes and smile alit by the glow of
birthday candles; your cry of “Duuuder!” in mock protest over some quip I make;
that sweet and gentle smirk of yours that always makes my heart swell with
pure, unadulterated joy; feeling your hand slip into mine underneath the table;
standing outside with you as I’m about to leave, your arms wrapped around me
through the inside of my coat, your face pressed against my chest like you used
to; you wordlessly climbing into the passenger seat of my car so I can steal
you away for the weekend, take you home.
And so I do.
It’s been nearly
four years since I’ve seen you. That’s
such a long time – a high school diploma, a presidential term, a leap year come
and gone – yet not. ‘Cause while there
have been many struggles, more than a fair share of defeats and far too few
victories since then, the love I feel for you still remains as strong and vital
as the last time I saw you. And while
the hurts inflicted by you and, worse, by myself, to us, have healed as best
they could, there’s an ache that lingers just under the figurative scars that
bear your likeness on the bruised and battered heart that stubbornly, defiantly
beats away in my chest. So while a lot
has changed, it seems that I have kept true to my word that my feelings would
not. It’s both funny and fitting how
what hurts the most – and goddamn if love lost is not the most relentless of
all heartaches – also holds you most accountable. Years later, I have plenty of new wounds to
lick and injustices to howl about (or outright wallow over) – not to
mention a few more worry and laugh lines in my face – yet I still find myself
turning back to thoughts of you and how I could have done better. And for that, Meli, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I know now that a lot of my anger was a
protracted response to my frustrations with my previous relationship, which
unduly ended in a lot of manipulative behavior from my ex and the loss of
several close friends who chose her over me.
More importantly, I’ve come to understand that I was also suffering from
post-traumatic stress brought on by my terrible experiences in West Africa . I had
just barely gotten a handle on myself and my emotions when I first met you, and
then I went and made things even more complicated by trying to pursue an open
relationship – a radically different lifestyle than any I had previously experienced
– without having the understanding or patience required to make it fully
work. And never mind the fact that,
monogamous or not, you simply were not ready for a serious commitment in the
first place! Still, I treated these
things as little more than minor obstacles and pursued you with all the zeal,
passion and persistence I can possibly generate for that someone who captures
my heart. In time I wore you down, and
then finally won you over – but by then we had put each other as well as
ourselves through the wringer. And I’m
sorry for that, too.
Not surprisingly, you continue to weigh heavy in my
heart and mind, and I feel that I have still yet to find the words that might
convince you to forgive me. And that’s
likely because I’ve yet to figure out how to wholly forgive myself – for my
lack of patience; for not making you feel like you were more important than my
impulses and desires; for my unnecessary (and frightening) flashes of anger;
for demanding definitive answers when I could have just as easily been more diligent
about helping you find them; for not knowing when to hold you closer (or let
you go once and for all); for giving you any and every reason to cut off
contact with me. I feel particularly
awful about that last one; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you
changed your phone number or blocked my e-mails. Whether or not I felt my anger was
“justified” – the fact that I even have to put that word in quotes makes me
wince – due to your (perceived) lack of compassion in the aftermath of our
break-up, no matter who had the longer tally of grievances to hide behind, no
one should have to endure such harassment.
Honestly, even if you have found – or one day will find – a way to
forgive me for such despicable actions, I doubt that I ever will. As it stands, much of my behavior toward the
end still haunts me to this day.
However, sorrow and regret are not the reason why you
remain a constant in my thoughts, why not a day goes by where I don’t reflect
on you – on us – even if it’s little more than a passing reverie or a tiny snowflake
of memory melting your name on my tongue.
Simply, I am still in love with you, Melissa. Maybe not as madly or desperately as I used
to be, but it is very much a love that has remained honest and true these last
four years and counting. (And, really, I’m
all but certain that the intensity of such love smolders just below the
surface, awaiting a grand and miraculous – and, yes, utterly ridiculous –
rebirth.) It is a love that has for
better or worse set the bar for all future relationships. It is because I lost such a love that I know
better what I need from a relationship and how to pursue it with more caution,
consideration and care. It is because I
lost you that I became determined to be even more vigilant about
communication and commitment. Anything
less is a slap in the face to what we shared (and, alas, suffered) during our
brief time together, and I simply cannot have it all be for naught. You mean(t) far too much to me to do such a
terrible thing to our legacy. ‘Cause
aside from a treasured collection of photographs and memories, that legacy is
currently all that remains of us – and it’s very important for me to
remember both the good and the bad.
If you asked me why
I’m reaching out to you after so many years, I guess I would tell you that it
was simply time. I have been working up
the nerve to do this for quite a while now, but something repeatedly told me to
wait, then wait a bit longer . . . and then wait just a little bit more. I once read that time doesn’t necessarily
heal wounds but rather gives us perspective.
What could we have done differently?
What could have I done with the knowledge and experience I possess
now? Would we have had a better chance
if we both weren’t so weighed down by our previous heartbreaks? Can we move beyond our own past – our own
heartbreak – and start anew? That last
question touches upon a notion that might be too ambitious (and/or terrifying)
to even consider. Maybe you have no
interest whatsoever in even entertaining such a thought. I can only hope that time and perspective might be on my side – at
least enough to warrant some kind of response.
(How I would love the opportunity to tell you in
person just how much I’ve missed you, Meli.
Madly. Desperately. I realize that now as I commit these words to
the page.)
We had something good once. Hell, judging by our rate of breaking up and
getting back together, we had something good several times. And I would
like to think that if we could find such harmony despite the continuous upsets
brought forth by the mountains of baggage we both brought to the table (as well
as the inherent risks of navigating a relationship dynamic that was always
going to be a tall order), I believe that we could still have more good times
together. I believe in reconciliation. I believe in us. Maybe not in any predestined way – we’d first
have to take a leap of faith getting to know each other all over again – but I do believe that we’re not finished just
yet, that something splendid and meaningful can still come from the ashes of
what was. And maybe such an idea belongs
in the realm of fantasy, that strange and wonderful place where I’m heartily welcomed
back into your life by simply ringing your doorbell . . . but I’m a man of
possibility, Meli. I excel at turning fantasy into
reality. And when it comes to you, I still
have the will if you dare to show me the way.
And if not – if you just can’t bring yourself to
bother, to try – I truly do
understand. And I begrudge you
nothing. Maybe you need more time. Or maybe all the time in the world will never
be enough. This thought saddens me
deeply, but I understand that, too. I
understand all too well the consequences of my actions; I live with them every
day.
(It seems I’m
burdened with far more regrets than I ever thought possible to accrue in my thirty-one
years.)
Overall, what I want to say most is something that I
cannot convey enough:
Melissa,
I am sorry.
Please forgive me.
Someday.
I miss you.
Madly. Desperately.
I still love you.
Something fierce. And true.
And it’s about time I told you so. With all the heart I can muster.
And so I do.
Truly,
Ardently,
Lobo
10/04/2012
10/04/2012
